The Gas Station
by NobleMemoRuled
Summary: Pre-series. Dean contemplates fading out of existence. Based on an artwork by George Segal.


_I think I'm supposed to put a disclaimer thing at the beginning, although it hardly seems necessary as this site is explicitly for fan fiction. However, I really don't want to get sued, so there it is: I do not own Supernatural, nor do I own The Gas Station by George Segal. You can find out what it looks like on Google._

_I think I'm shaking. Wooo. Here it goes._

**THE GAS STATION**

It's a gas station outside of New Brunswick, NJ in late July. Dean can hear grasshoppers click in the tall grass beside the main building. It's unfair, the warmth, when he's this far north. There's a 1960s Coca-Cola machine beside him, and an empty glass bottle he cannot remember drinking from in his hand. He's sitting on an empty crate, and there's another one full of empty bottles nearby.

To his right, a mechanic's working on the Impala, pouring oil into her. Dean ran into some mechanical problems not far from here. He asked the mechanic for some tools, but the man only laughed, wiping his hands off with a rag. "By this heat? Take a seat, I'll do a real nice job and I won't charge you much." He winked.

So Dean waits. He's hunting solo now, and he doesn't half-hate it. Vaguely he recalls there's a case nearby, people from all over the region gone missing, a few every year since the 60s. There's no link between the victims, nothing that jumps out, except they were all headed somewhere, and even that's not consistent.

Dean feels the sun on his face, the color of the sky, the perfume of mid-summer wildflowers. Every sound is music flowing through his ears. It's so hot he wants to take off his jacket, until he realizes he already has done so. He wipes the sweat off his face with his hand. The case - all the victims had been going to a definite place, different every time, passing through New Brunswick. Where is he going, again? Mary, Mary-earth, Mary-field? Maryland, that's it. How can he forget?

God it's hot. His Coke's empty, Dean is reminded when the warm glass touches his lips. He sighs, looks at the stray clouds. His brother - Sal? Sad? No, Sam - is at college, someplace that must be baking. Dean wishes for opportunity, a perfect life. How nice would it be to simply blend in with the grass and the rocks and the insects' symphony, all nature arranged in its masterful disorder.

A thought floats through - how long has he been here? It feels like a few minutes and days at the same time. Dean swallows dryly. He knows there's a clock above him, but he doesn't want to look up. How wonderful being washed away into the sunset must feel like, how freeing to never have responsibilities again must be - to never have to answer to his father again, to never have to worry about Sad - Sam - again. He imagines melting into reds and yellows and oranges.

He can barely assemble ideas in his head anymore. He knows something's not quite right. A throbbing pain goes through his head as he reminds himself where the other travelers disappeared. The discovery almost gets away from him, but he keeps it close even though it hurts. It was a highway - this highway.

"Mechanic?" Dean calls out, the barely audible words scratching his throat. His head almost bursts, but he knows he must hurry. "Mechanic?"

"Yeah, son?" the man replies, getting out from under the hood. Dean can't make out his traits, blinded by the oh-so-red sun.

"You know, I think I can take it from here," Dean says as lightly as he can. he wishes he could get up, but his legs are lead and won't let him move.

"As if I'd let you!" the mechanic chuckles, bending over again. "Take a break, kid."

"I'm serious," Dean says. The mechanic is about to retort when he realizes Dean's got a gun pointed at him. They watch each other as the seconds stretch out. "It's you," Dean adds. "They faded because of you."

"Son, I'd think twice about that," the mechanic advises, fear hinting in his voice. For a second there's just the two of them and the gas station in the universe and everything depends on the choice Dean must make. One, two shots ring out into the hot, empty air, and with each Dean feels stronger. He gets up and wobbles over to where the mechanic is splayed out on the ground, and he looks down.

"They were all lost, like you," the creature gurgles out. "Think of how nice the sunset is - think of not ever thinking again." Dean wants to retort something snarky and well-found, but words still escape him. Instead, he follows his instinct and puts a bullet through the faceless mechanic's head.

A few minutes later, Dean staggers to the driver's side of the Impala and gets in. He drives off onto the empty road, regaining slowly his individuality. How cool the evening air is, with the windows rolled down and the radio blasting rock music.

Satisfied, he looks in his rear-view mirror and watches smoke rise over the gas station, flames licking the building. He anticipates the explosion, feeling somewhat disappointed he wouldn't witness it. A smile creeps across his lips as he presses on the gas. The sunset is particularly nice, Dean thinks, but it's not like a Winchester would ever choose the easy way out.

_Thanks for reading my story! __The actual installation is supposed to represent isolation in modern day society or something, and the white figures are supposed to be fading, like ghosts. It's that last aspect I chose to work with. Yeah, modern art. The mechanic wasn't based on any actual monster though. Sorry for the cheesy ending._


End file.
